Don't You Mind?
by elleisforlovee
Summary: Nine years after Bloody Sunday, Ireland is still deeply entrenched in conflict. Tom Branson, a stubborn yet intelligent member of the Dublin Brigade, intends to leave for Belfast to fight for what he was raised to believe in. However, fate presents several chance encounters with Sybil Crawley leading to a whirlwind night that not only derails his plans but changes his life forever.
1. Cynical

**A/N****:** And so it begins. Yes, another story. It's okay, I hate me too. While I do have _Crash Into Me_ and _Peata Beag A Dhaidí _this story will essentially take _Beautiful Collisions'_ place in the lineup (epilogue goes up this Friday...let's not talk about it until then because I'll cry). So! While nothing could ever replace that, this will be a close second. Maybe. Hopefully. We'll see.

Enjoy!

* * *

"We're so lazy  
We're soap-box heroes  
And we've got so much to say…"  
_Cynical_ - Enter The Haggis

* * *

Tom Branson's life happened in flashes, or so it seemed that way as he, now twenty-three and university educated, found nothing he could look back and point to as being truly worthwhile. There were events, of course, things that happened to him and made him who he currently was, but nothing that truly set him apart from anyone else. After all, that was how life worked: you were born, raised on things like faith and love, and then catapulted into the world with these as your devices, never once being told it takes something far more tangible to get you through. But you learn, and in Tom's case, read, delving deep into books on philosophy and politics, your eyes feasting on things your poor mother wouldn't dare say aloud. Of course your friends, all growing up in the same working class neighborhood on the Southside of Dublin, know little of what you comment on. Their world is motivated differently, and without an education afforded to them, they hold onto things more blindly, and move much in the same way.

One thing in particular, one singular moment, something that Tom had seen, was something they all never spoke of, and were glad they had never experienced. It was what drove Tom to join the Dublin Brigade, seeking it out while his friends had been approached and coerced into listing. Having already lost so much, he was forced to acknowledge the possibility of losing even more. His family, smaller than most in his neighborhood, now just consisted of his mother and baby sister. Everyone else was one of many, and should they not return from Belfast, their mothers would sob and pray for their safekeeping, while at the same time swelling with pride that a boy, their own son, was fighting for a worthy cause. Then they'd move on, knowing the responsibility they still had to those children who hadn't yet been given the chance to be so courageous. Helen Branson promised Tom once, and it did not need repeating, that if he went to Belfast he was as good as dead to her. Tom knew his mother well enough to know that she would not shed a single tear over his absence. When his father passed, she had shed enough, and since then, refused to cry over the headstrong men in her life; her husband with his words and Tom with the same, but now also outfitted with an assault rifle.

There were secrets he kept, ones that were nonsensical and went beyond the way in which he was always so guarded. His best friend Aidan didn't even know his favorite color or what it was he studied at university. Like others, he knew the rumors of the girls and the drugs and the drinking. He knew, or thought he knew, about Tom's plans to leave Dublin, and he waited, only to find that every day, Tom showed up to school, and on Sundays, he sat in a dark wooden pew to receive communion at mass with his family. His mother Helen, and his sister Katherine, or Katie Grace, as everyone called her, knew him best, or at least used to. Lately, they swore up and down he was changed, but their feminine hearts held on, despite everything in the world that told them to just let it go. They had buried his father and they were sure they'd do the same for him. These things never ended in glory, and it was a sincere shame that Tom was a casualty of that way of thinking, a victim himself, now taking the role of perpetrator as if that were meant to correct all past trespasses. Or at least excuse the ones he'd now commit in the way those committed against him and his family never were.

The world Tom lived in was certainly one of chaos, but of change as well. The streets were half-beaten, with broken down fences becoming rusted as villages became more occupied with unity of the country, rather than unity of a people, and those closest to home. The lines existed and were clearly drawn, with mothers either warning their kids to stay away from boys like Tom, or hoping fully that their own children would grow up to be just like him. Most viewpoints were clear, in this neighborhood especially. Two men died that day in Derry, and with a fervor not seen since independence, the anger and the hatred was as strong as it had ever been, illustrated most poignantly by the rising number of boys, just like Tom, joining the Provisional Republican Army, and the women and children that surrounded them, supporting their decisions.

"Look at this feckin' arsehole! Where ya been Tommy?"

He was greeted much in the same way every time he approached his group of friends. All of them constantly talking about fighting, of going to Belfast to make a change, but finding no other pastime than to stand in circles, passing cigarettes back and forth between themselves as the quiet echo of city life moved around them.

"What's it to you?" Tom shot back, before walking to join them. He grabbed for his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pinched at the center of one to place the stick at his lips. Striking a match, he inhaled, setting fire to the paper, an ashy butt already appearing at the end. After holding the first puff in his mouth for a bit, he exhaled, blowing outward, knowing that the answer to his question would never come.

"Last Friday here," Tom commented. His eyes wandered up, careful not to reveal the curiosity he had for hearing what his friends had to say on the matter.

Of them, there had always been five. Tom and Aidan were the closest, of course, with the fact that their mothers grew up together solidifying that bond. There was also Ciaran, John, and Michael. All of them, tall and cocky and Catholic. They believed the things boys their age do, and went on to find faith in things they perhaps should have not. There was something that happened when you gave a boy a gun. He didn't suddenly become a man in the way you'd think and hope. His maturity would actually subside now with something to hide behind. There was no need for smooth talking or charisma or even manners. All of them, even Tom, believed they were a gift to their town, and they'd do their work tirelessly, just so as long as they never have to apologize for it.

Ciaran nodded, pulling his cigarette away from his lips. His eyes narrowed as a smirk appeared across his face. "What'd you have in mind?"

Tom shrugged. "I asked you first."

Aidan sized up the situation, finding the idea he had that morning to be one of use in the present. Dramatically, he turned around and launched himself up onto a nearby wooden crate, causing the mud on his boots to shake off and fall down onto the ground beneath the slats. "I've got an idea," he began. "But you pricks will probably bow out. None of you know how to have any feckin' fun anymore."

Tom shook his head, knowing he need not reply for the conversation to continue. This was confirmed as John pushed at Aidan's shoulder, sending him stumbling backward. "Try me!"

"It's a game I heard Nolan and his buddies used to play. Actually," Aidan pointed with his cigarette, "it's a game they picked up at UCD."

"What are you keeping from us Tommy?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know what he's talking about."

Ignoring Tom, Aidan continued. "Forty nicker—"

"Feck no!" Michael called out. He was the most timid of the bunch, but still, a spitfire in his own right. Modesty and contentedness did not flourish here. Such things were reserved for more wealthy neighborhoods where affluence lead to an indifference to the cause, and for some, an overall relocation to the United States or Canada.

Ciaran raised a steady hand as if to still the conversation. "Let him finish!"

"Forty nicker in. If we're going out tonight we might as well go out with a bang, yah?"

Tom sighed. "Get to the point, Aidan."

"Fine," he said, now jumping down from crate upon which he was previously standing. The muddied sidewalk his feet rested on would act as his soapbox now, though they all knew Aidan needed little platform to speak his mind. "Tonight, Cleary's. Forty quid in, winner takes all."

"For what?" Michael asked, showing the growing impatience of the entire group.

"Whichever one of you poor bastards brings the ugliest girl."

"_Sóinseáil _for an ugly girl? Piss off!" Ciaran yelled causing Tom to drop his head back and laugh.

Aidan stepped in to him. "When's the last time you've had a lay, Connolly? I'd think you wouldn't be so picky."

"Feck. That." John stated in a syncopated manner, making his tone very clear. "We have to lay her too? Ciaran's right man, no way."

Aidan stepped further into the circle and began staring at his friends, letting his eyes cast upon them, moving up and down in disgust. "Okay, so fuck the lay bit! But it's not pocket change. That'd be 200 nicker. Last time I checked, none of this money is heading our way," he stated honestly, referring to the money they had acquired for the cause, and immediately sent North.

Through all of this, Tom was silent. The cigarette he demanded tainted oxygen from was dwindling down. Already he was close to the end, and though he hated to admit it, he wanted another, if anything so that his mouth could remain trained on things other than the truth. Tired, and watching as the spring sky threatened to already fade into a deep purple-orange, Tom threw down his cigarette and crushed the butt with the heel of his boot. "I'm in."

"What?" Aidan asked. But quickly he was smiling at his best friend. He clapped a hand to his back, causing Tom to pull his own lips into a tight smile. "Fuck yeah you are! That's the Tommy I know. What about the rest of you? You're a sorry lot if you're not up for the challenge."

John nodded. "Eh, whatever."

"Yeah?" Aidan asked, his eyes brightening with each concede to his plan.

"Fine," Ciaran sighed. "But I'm only doing it because I swear to Christ this is going to be a wash."

"Me too," Michael agreed, now lighting another cigarette. He blew out and held the stick down at his side.

"Great!" Aidan said, clapping another hand to Michael's back, using the leverage he had on both Michael and Tom to pull both friends in. "Cleary's then. 8 o'clock tonight. And I swear to god if any of you sorry bastards pull out, our friendship is over, ya hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom let out, now moving out of Aidan's grasp as he began walking back for the street.

"Where are you going now?" John asked.

"I have a few errands to run."

"Errands? Jesus Christ, Tommy. What the fuck are they teaching you at that school? You need a girl."

"I don't need shit, Aidan. And hey, go see your mam before you come out tonight. She was asking for you when I saw her near the market this morning."

Aidan sighed. "You need to get out of this town, Tommy - see the big picture. It's making you small-minded."

Tom laughed, thinking how of the five of them, it was all kinds of ironic for him to be the one accused of having a small mind. Perhaps it was how he was representing himself. For as much as they all shared the same views, Tom did so in a different way, and to do anything but follow the pack was to disobey the call of your country. Maybe this was why he was quick to accept Aidan's offer, finding the idea to be as dull and utterly insensitive as it was, but never daring to say so. Aidan was right; he did need to get out of Dublin, but for reasons and truths even Tom wasn't ready to acknowledge.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!

x. Elle


	2. An End Has A Start

**A/N****:** Hello readers! Well, as some of you may now, _Beautiful Collisions_ is done, so I'm free to post this now. This will be incredibly different than that story, both in genre, overall theme, and length, but I do hope those who enjoyed BC will also grow to love this. This chapter really begins to set everything in motion, as this story takes place very slowly - ie, we cover every bit of a weekend in several chapters. So enjoy! And do tell me what you think if you feel so inclined. This story is all about opinions, and I'd love to hear yours :]

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"Someone hit the light  
'Cause there's more here to be seen  
When you caught my eye  
I saw everywhere I'd been  
And wanna go to  
You came on your own  
That's how you'll leave  
With hope in your hands  
And air to breathe  
I won't disappoint you  
As you fall apart  
Some things should be simple  
Even an end has a start"  
_An End Has A Start_ - The Editors

* * *

Tom wished his life was as exciting and adventurous as everyone suspected it to be. Maybe he did need a girl or a drug, just something to distract his mouth from saying things that contradicted the fact that his hands were so familiar with the trigger of a gun. Some of these men, at least those in Belfast, proudly walked around with their rifles slung over their shoulders, but in Dublin, the overall presence of the 'RA was less prevalent, and he and all of his friends were told to keep quiet. They performed smaller, more petty tasks; their aim being to get the army money, and not to make a statement.

When they left on Monday, things would change. Tom didn't know how, but he imagined it, and he imagined the look of horror on children's faces as he paced the streets, armed and masked and silent — always silent. Some of them would be no older than Katie Grace, and all at once, every ounce of him would be forced to abandon his childhood as things like death and fire and destruction became commonplace. He believed in the cause, but was still struggling with the side effects. Like a sedative or a night spent drinking, he wondered when it would all catch up to him, and if he'd look back on these days and wonder if he'd made his father proud or even furthered Ireland's position.

Despite what his friends thought, Tom's actual destination was a bookshop he used to visit with his family on Saturday mornings. It was much more run down than he ever remembered, but Tom liked it for this reason, and loved that amongst the old dusty titles and unrecognizable bindings, some of the best literary tales could be found. On occasion, Mr. O'Connor, who owned the shop, would order new titles in hopes of attracting business, but in general most of the books were used, with some of their leather covers refurbished by the old shopkeeper merely for his own enjoyment. The shop was now visited mostly by students of the local universities, either Tom's own UCD, or the private Trinity College, with the campus just up the road.

Entering the shop, Tom was immune to the bell that rang above his head, and he headed straight for one of the bookshelves in the back. All of them, unlike those in other bookstores, were of mismatched wood, with the differing paint colors chipping away, showing that they were just as antiquated as the stories they carried. Somehow, Mr. O'Connor managed to keep his wife's organizational system alive after she passed, and Tom, one of the shop's older customers, found comfort in the way the things he needed to find were always right where he thought they'd be. Few things in life, if any, worked the way this antique bookshop did.

At the back of the shop, Tom called out for Mr. O'Connor, but found his ears greeted with nothing but silence. It was not unlikely for the elderly gentleman to disappear into the back of the shop to read, make tea, or balance the books, trusting that anyone who was curious enough to wander into his shop was of a good nature and pleasant disposition to pay for anything they may be interested in.

As Tom browsed through the titles of books he already knew the endings of, he was momentarily distracted by a rustling, and then a loud click as the girl at the end of the aisle a few rows over, stepped down off a stool where she was inspecting a book up on a higher shelf. The starched white collar of the shirt she wore contrasted sharply with the burnt sienna jumper she had draped over it, both of which hugged her hips right above where a brown skirt flowed away from her body. For reasons Tom was unaware of, he smiled at her, and for the first time in his life, she looked away. It was not just offense, but curiosity, and his deeply seated need to always be accepted, that had him pacing toward her as she carried a stack of books up toward the front register.

"Can I help you?" she called out softly, not even bothering to turn back to him.

Tom was stilled by her voice — humming, raspy, and eerily beautiful. There was something else about it as well.

"You're English…"

"I am," she returned flatly.

"Well maybe I should be asking you if I can help you?"

She shook her head, dismissing the confusion she felt wash over her due to his response. "I'm not sure what that means."

Tom chuckled. "And I wouldn't expect you to. Is Mr. O'Connor around?"

"He's visiting his daughter today. He'll be back in on Monday. Is there anything I can do for you until he returns?"

"You work here?"

"No," the girl rolled her eyes. "I'm just a friendly English girl offering my services."

"Those services being…" Tom's voice suggestively trailed off.

This girl, it seemed, was not at all amused. "Books, mostly. Conversation if you're lucky."

"Ahh," Tom nodded, both of his hands tucked in the back pockets of his black jeans as he slowly approached her. "What's your favorite?"

"Book?" she replied. "You want to know my favorite book but you haven't even asked for my name..."

"Names are easy," Tom returned. "Someone's favorite book tells a lot more than their name ever will."

"Alright then," she sighed. "Pride and Prejudice. I have others but that is my absolute favorite." Another steady breath brushed past her lips, which like her hair, frizzy and plaited, Tom found he couldn't stop staring at. "And you?"

"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."

"By Joyce?" she asked for clarification.

"Yes. But I do read things by non-Irish authors, I'll have you know."

"Okay," she nodded before turning back to a book on the shelf behind her which she grabbed and began to write in. Why, when they did not kn0w one another, they both felt as if they should defend their choices, was not lost on either of them.

"What is your name?"

Again, she did not look to him and the expression she wore went unchanged. "Sybil."

He waited, giving her time to return his question with more than just an answer, but no words followed. "I'm Tom," he tried instead, also offering her his hand.

Sybil looked at it and shook it before returning her attention to her book. "Why does it matter that I'm English, Tom?"

"It doesn't, I suppose."

"Alright, then let's go back to my original question. How can I help you?"

"When did you start working here?" Tom asked instead. His words caught Sybil off guard and she immediately dropped her pen and looked up.

"Long enough to know who you are and to know that you have Mr. O'Connor set aside books for you every Friday."

"You're observant."

"And you're self-important. Is that an Irish thing?"

"Why have I never seen you before?" Tom asked, using his method of deflection again in hopes of garnering similar results. "Do you live here?"

"Maybe."

"You go to Trinity then?"

"Maybe."

"Why don't you like me?"

"I don't know you," Sybil laughed off. "I just don't understand why you won't tell me to grab your parcel so we can both be on with our day."

"Am I that unbearable?"

"Again, I don't know you," Sybil repeated, her eyes narrowing in on Tom, all the while keeping her lips pursed.

"If I ask for my package will you talk to me?"

"We're talking right now," she gave, gesturing to the counter in front of her for proof.

"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"

Quickly, Sybil pressed the back of her hand up to her nose and mouth to stifle a laugh as she turned away. "What?"

Tom was already wearing a smile, but it grew. She was beautiful. Utterly stunning, and yet the question, though going against what he was supposed to be looking for, made all the sense in the world.

"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"

"I'll tell you again, Tom," she said, using his name as a warning, one that somehow made his mouth curve further upward in amusement, "I don't know you."

"Then get to know me."

"I don't know if I want to get to know you."

"Why is that?"

"Well, first off, you have a gun in your bag."

Tom smirked. "Small technicality."

"Will you tell me why you have a gun in your bag? I've seen boys like you, a whole group of them the other day actually, but you're different..."

Cockily, Tom leaned back now, as he pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Why's that?"

"Well, for starters, you can read."

Heartily, he dropped his head back to laugh. "I can."

"Unless this is also a game you're playing."

"The gun's not a game."

"Does Mr. O'Connor know you have that?" Sybil asked quickly. "He's very fond of you, you know. Always has very lovely things to say."

"He was a friend of my father's."

"Well I think he'd be disappointed to know you have a gun in your bag," Sybil stated matter of factly before returning to her book. Sybil was referring to Mr. O'Connor, but Tom heard her words as the thoughts of his late father, and a bit of discomfort and sadness overtook his features.

As if it were nothing, Sybil continued to scribble down notes, numbers, mostly, tallying who had visited the shop and what they had asked for or purchased. She had not yet gotten to Tom and seemed to only be logging earlier customers, that of which there were many and Tom was made happy by this. He wondered, though, what her pen would write about him, or if she'd tell Mr. O'Connor about this at all. She doubted he'd mind, and Tom knew he wouldn't, if Tom quietly came to collect his books and departed. In all honesty, he often wished he was capable of being that unassuming.

"Doesn't it scare you?"

"No," Sybil scoffed, still writing. "If you wanted to rob me or have your way with me, you would have done it by now." She sighed and looked up again, this time not dropping the pen but using it like he would the barrel of his gun — to point and shoot. "Do they teach you what to do with that thing or do they just give it to you and hope you'll figure it all out?"

"You're pretty, Sybil, and your taste in literature isn't completely shit, but I have to be honest and let you know that you really have no idea what you're talking about."

"What? Does that frighten you? People in this town don't talk about it. I get it. It's scary. But it doesn't bother me. And if we are being honest, I'm just curious…" In realizing she wasn't going to get a reaction out of Tom this way, Sybil's voice trailed off. "You didn't know I worked in this bookshop because Mr. O'Connor used to keep me hidden away. It sounds silly, and it made me feel childish for awhile, but you see, no one in this town would hire an English girl. He said he wasn't bothered by me and his wife had just passed and I knew he needed help so I did what I could in the back. I got his checkbook in order, and we devised a system for loans and student rentals. And then slowly, he trusted me. But he still didn't want me to talk. So while he and I had gotten past whatever internalized prejudice he had, he knew not everyone else would be as friendly. Because the thing is, whether any of you realize it or not, you're on a side. Each and every one of you is aligned. Even the boys that aren't like you, the ones that don't carry guns in their rucksacks, they watch my mouth as I talk because they can't fathom that a girl like me would have a brain. And then I tell them that I, someone who was raised in England, may actually agree with them. I think Thatcher's a witch and I honestly believe what has happened to this country is sad. But it doesn't matter, does it? At the end of the day, I'm still English and you're still Irish and you still don't like me…"

"I don't know you, Sybil," Tom repeated. The daggers she had sent his way were now furling back toward her, and Sybil wondered if they tasted as bitter and as sharp as they did falling off her own tongue.

"But you want to know me. That or you think I should want to know you. I haven't quite figured out which one it is."

"Well it sounds like you're curious. Come with me tonight and I'll show you whatever you want to see."

"Alright," she practically whispered.

Tom was ready to turn for the door, but his entire body froze at her acceptance of his request. "What?"

"I said alright. I said I'd come out with you."

"Why would you do that?"

Sybil chuckled. "Because you asked. What? Are you already having second thoughts?"

"No, I just...I didn't think you'd say yes."

"Why? I already told you, Tom. I'm not scared of you. Because I'm not scared of you, I hold the power."

"What power is that?"

"The power to change your mind."

Tom watched as Sybil grabbed for her things, first the heavy bag that hung on a nearby coat rack, then the heavier cardigan that hung with it.

"C'mon," she ushered, causing Tom to follow as the two headed for the door.

It seemed that Tom was so caught up in her, so distracted by the words she had just said and the weight they carried, that he didn't even bother to ask for his books. He also didn't know that he didn't need to, that Sybil had tucked them away in her own rucksack long before he entered that morning, as if planning for this day all along.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

x. Elle


	3. Ready To Question

**A/N****:** Hi! I know it has been awhile, and I apologize. Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story thus far, and especially to those of you who have done that and reviewed.

Enjoy! x

* * *

"See I've seen devils, I've seen saints,  
I've seen the lines between them fade.  
I've seen pictures with no meaning.  
I don't know what to believe.  
But I'm ready to question  
That life is a blessing."  
_Ready To Question_ - Gabrielle Aplin

* * *

Sybil Crawley was intelligent, soft-spoken, and curious. She did not assume or therefore expect anything about or from others. She merely existed, valuing things like a strong smile and simple laugh, or the way that it was so easy for people to help others the less they thought about it. She excelled: in her education, with her artwork, at riding a horse, and even in entertaining during parties. She followed the rules and believed in a society that was righteous and just, and made no qualms about attending Sunday morning church services with her parents, where she'd spend the time admiring the stained glass windows and chiseled wood altar, instead of truly listening to the words the vicar spoke, or sometimes even sang from the gently used miscellany provided per pew. In her parents eyes, Sybil was the perfect child, and it was not just they who spoke highly of her. From the time she was a little girl, Sybil had made quite a name for herself in the town too: volunteering at the local library, riding her bike to the pastry shop on Saturday mornings and to the creamery for milk and ice cream on Friday nights. She knew everyone's children and pets, and sometimes even the livestock they kept and the names of the occupations they held when out into the world beyond Downton. She was constantly looked at, constantly gazed upon, noticed mostly by young men and the parents who wished to match her with their sons in marriage. It was easy to ignore them and their advances until one day it was not. It was easy to bite her tongue and to be still and silent until one day it was not. She was the daughter of the Earl of Grantham in the county of Yorkshire in North England, until one day, she was not.

It seemed though that traveling across the Irish Sea did not change Sybil in the way she imagined it would. Really, she had little expectation of the life she'd be entering into, only a knowledge that it'd be different and rightfully so. She did not come to Dublin blindly or without pretense. She had heard the news of civil war and of destruction and poverty, but was more curious than judgemental, and she was here, she'd tell everyone, to further her education. When they'd ask why she didn't chose to do so in her own country, the conversation would end. Sybil, she believed, belonged to no place, and no longer had a home. In addition to the books she would read and the brilliant women she would study, she knew nothing from her former life as familiar. What she sought, beyond a degree, was a life she could call her own, where she was able to become her own person and never question the authenticity of such a claim.

Tom Branson, the young, albeit attractive man who walked into the bookshop she worked in every Friday, certainly did not. In fact, he was the first in this town to not question why she decided to stay in Dublin. He didn't even ask how she arrived, and it was the first time since doing so that Sybil felt she actually ought to explain herself. But she couldn't explain it, and it puzzled her, especially now as she walked with him back to her dormitory where she intended on changing before they headed back out. To where, she didn't know, but she had been watching Tom, taking small snapshots of the way his rucksack always hung so lazily over his right shoulder and how the soles of his boots were worn, but the straps holding each chord, polished. Often she wondered about his family, or the girlfriend he kept. Though she was no more than an observer here, she had heard the stories too, and with each glance that the two shared, already in such a small amount of time, she wished to rid him off the weight in his shoulders, to ask him to share with her the truth. If he did so, when he did so, she thought, rolling her eyes in a fleeting, hopeless manner, she'd give him some of herself as well. Perhaps why she came here, and really, why she stayed.

"It's my birthday, you know," she said as she stepped up onto the concrete slab that separated the walkway from the entrance to her dormitory.

Tom's eyebrows lifted and a small smirk appeared across his face. "Is it then?"

"No," she smiled sweetly as she turned the key in the lock and pushed inside. "It's not."

"Alright," Tom chuckled. "It's not," he shrugged.

With the door opened, she pushed it fully open and then moved to stand near the wall with it, granting Tom entry. "You can tell a lot about someone by how they react to your birthday."

"Oh yeah?" Tom mused. If she was making fun of him, he couldn't tell, and if he could, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to call her out on it, so instead, he played along. "Was my reaction telling? Do you think you know me now, Sybil?"

"No," she said, her voice becoming more serious than it was before. "I'm actually a bit confused."

"Why's that?" he asked as the two began to ascend the staircase up toward her room.

At the door, Sybil stopped and performed the same task she just had downstairs. When they were inside and the door was shut, she threw her leather satchel down onto her pristinely made bed. "You seemed a bit upset to learn it wasn't my birthday. I guess I just wasn't expecting that."

"Well," Tom said as he now stared at the photographs hanging above what he could only assume was her roommates bed. It gave him something to look at, especially considering the lack of clutter, of belongings, that existed on Sybil's side of the shared room. "As you've told me several times, we don't know one another."

Sybil smirked. "No, we do not."

Tom sighed and turned back to her. "What are we here for?"

"I'm grabbing a new book. And I'd like to change. I mean, I hope you don't think I'd wear this out for tea with a friend."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "I hope you don't actually care what I think…" It was the most honest he'd been in quite some time, and the sincerity of it made his voice shake and his arms tremble as the newness of her and what it could all mean began to play on loop in his mind. "Are we friends now?"

Sybil said nothing, so he continued. "Tea? Is that what we're doing?"

"Well you asked me to come out with you. What else would we do?"

Tom smirked and his eyes glossed over — teasing. "I did grow up around here. I have a few ideas."

In an unexpected turn, Sybil smirked too. "How is that? Still being in the same place you were born?"

"Well, I wouldn't really know, I suppose." He wanted to say either, to make a comparison between them, but he didn't dare. He didn't know her, and already he was biding the time they had before she'd make that official. "The Dublin I was born in is a bit different than the Dublin you know now."

Sybil pulled another starched shirt out of her closet, and tossed it to the bed. Tom waited for her to ask him to leave so she could change, or to ask him to elaborate. Neither occurred, and instead, she made a small request. "You can sit down."

Tom, who had his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jeans, looked to her, his eyes questioning such a small gesture. "On the bed," she said quickly, but just as fast, blinked, feeling overwhelmed by the frankness evident in her own voice. "We only have one desk and Molly will be back soon, and I wouldn't want you on her side of the room…"

"Who's Molly?"

"My roommate," Sybil revealed with a smile, happy they were on to more amenable topics. Friends, she knew. She was not well versed in boys, or in Tom's case, men, ones with chest hair peeking out above the soft collar of their grey t-shirt, where below, a golden cross hung gently from a chain above his heart. This was new territory, and the first thing she had done since arriving in Dublin that seemed to even come close to breaking the rules, all of which, she was beginning to learn, existed solely in her mind.

"Last name?" Tom asked as he moved for the bed. His hands dropped from out of his pockets but he still refused to sit.

"Shanahan."

"Does she know Kevin Shanahan? Or Padraic?"

Sybil shook her head. "She's not from around here."

"Where's she from? I think there's Shanahan's in Galway…"

"No," Sybil tried again. "North Down." A pause. "Right outside of Belfast."

Tom smirked. "I know where it is." Then: "Do you like her?"

"I do. She's my closest friend here."

"By default?"

"By chance, I think," Sybil gave back.

"You know," Tom said, "I think it's more odd that she's here than you are."

"I don't care if people think it's odd that I'm here."

"Yeah, you've hinted at that several times today…" Tom sighed. "Are people cruel to her?"

"Not any more cruel than they've been to me. You know, we all just try to go to school and move past it."

"Move past it?" Tom chuckled and wiped at his upper lip. His mother had taught him many things, one of those being to never make yourself too comfortable in a girl's bedroom, but there was only so much she could manage being alone in her role as a parent, and still reeling from his father's passing. He'd honor her request, though silently, that he be a gentleman. Sybil, who he knew was not Catholic, wore a cross much like his around her own neck, and she'd given him no reason to be anything but kind. But he would not allow her ignorance, or the saccharine way in which her lips uttered words, to distract him from the matter at hand. Such stupidity had men and women dead in the streets.

"That was poor word choice."

"Yeah, I think so."

"I don't know what I'm talking about."

Tom stepped into her. "You seemed to know back in O'Connor's shop…"

"I don't know everything," she said strongly, and in doing so, causing her voice to shake. Still, she continued. "It's impossible to understand it all…" Her eyes darted back and forth from his brow to his lips as her mind toyed with the reality of the two of them being very much alone in her university dormitory.

"Is your friend not going to like that I'm here?" Tom asked simply, the words sounding somehow as if they blended with the current conversation. Sybil glanced to the door, and in staring at her eyes, his gaze followed.

She shook her head. "I'm not sure. Maybe. Probably. Who knows?"

"Does she know who I am?"

Sybil straightened up and moved to grab for her satchel, removing from it her old book. It was her way to detach from the situation, as the other option floating around in her mind had her lips dangerously close to his as the two breathed in. "I don't even know who you are."

Another smirk and Tom backed off. Tightly, he shut his eyes, a reprimand for his previous harshness. "So after tea...then what?"

"I don't know, Tom, you're leaving on Monday, are you not?" The shyness and the way she previously cowered in his presence was replaced by this much stronger, more sure young woman, one that had Tom smiling all without his permission. Sybil moved to explain. "I heard some people talking."

"You seem to hear a lot."

"I have a lot of time to listen."

"Why? Because—"

"Because nobody cares to hear what I have to say," she finished for him. For herself, really.

"People don't like to hear they're wrong," Tom corrected.

"Are they wrong?"

He smirked and stepped into her again. "Well that would depend on what side you're on."

She shook her head. "I already told you. I'm not on a side. I have no alliances. I don't know enough to form any."

"Lots of people in this town know nothing and their intentions are strong," Tom said, not in response, but more for the purpose of just sharing the thought. "Whose side is Molly on?"

"Mine," Sybil shot out. "So no, she won't like you being here."

"But I'm here."

Sybil nodded. "You're here…" Her voice trailed off as behind them, the door to her room opened, bringing with it a rush of cooler air and a girl Tom could only assume was Molly. On her hip, a boy's hand, and his grip tightened and his face soured as he let his eyes cast upon Tom and the way he was standing close to Sybil in the center of the room.

"Hi, Mol."

"Hi, Syb," she let out. "Who is this?"

Sybil inhaled. "Molly, this is Tom. Tom, this is Molly and her boyfriend Brian…"

Tom offered his hand but Molly brushed past him, not paying him, or his interjected limb, any attention. Now standing beside her friend, she turned back to the boys. "Bri, you can wait out in the hall with Tom while Sybil and I chat, right?"

Her boyfriend nodded, but waited, watching finally as Tom headed for the door, his rucksack still on the floor near Sybil's bed. Outside, Brian shut the door and waited again. This time, he kicked a leg up against the wall he leaned against where he also dropped his head back.

"Cigarette?" Tom tried, offering him the pack from the inside of his shirtsleeve. Brian shook his head and Tom shrugged before walking off toward the door Sybil and he first entered. He didn't bother to shout back to Brian and ask him to tell Sybil where it was he had gone. She was intent on finding him once, and he imagined she'd be more than willing to do it again.

Inside, Sybil shrugged out of her shirt and replaced it with another. This time, the jumper was more slouchy, and she now wore jeans and simple trainers instead of her leather skirt and boots. This was tea, she told herself. You don't even know him, she tried next. Her heart met the latter claim with a heavy thumping, one only akin to the increased speed she felt after a heavy-footed stroll to class.

"Who is he?"

"His name's Tom…" Sybil repeated. She did not look away from the mirror and instead tossed off the jumper only to replace it with the starched shirt she selected earlier. On top of that, she threw a cardigan, one in a rich fuschia color that she hoped looked as casual as she was attempting to be.

"Yes, I know his name!" Molly spat prissily. "I imagine they all have them. But why is he in your room? Our room?" she emphasized.

Sybil shrugged. "I invited him up here."

"Sybil, when I told you to enjoy yourself more, boys like Tom are not what I meant."

"You don't know what you're talking about," her friend whispered back. Then, with a louder tone, one made capable by a heavy intake of breath: "He's different. Smart, and funny," she lamented. "Cocky, sure, but what boy on this campus isn't?"

"Smart? Sybil, his job is to kill people like you and me."

She scoffed. "I'm pretty sure that's not his job."

"Well have you asked him?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "No, Mol, it hasn't come up in conversation yet. I'll be sure to insert that in when we're having tea. 'Ghee, Tom'," Sybil sang, "'Have you ever killed anyone?'" Though she was joking, as she fixed the way her shirt was tucked into the top of her jeans, Sybil found herself craving an answer to that question, if only so she could prove to Molly that on the whole, Tom was harmless.

"You can't change him, Sybil..."

"I don't want to change him."

"Well he can't be saved. None of us can. I know how you are and I know you think that everyone is good but I'm sorry, that's not the truth. Some people are rotten. Rotten and mean and hateful."

"It's just tea."

"Is it? What will you talk about then? Will you tell him about the parties you grew up attending? How your father works for the same government that belittles his people? That views them as less than? We're pawns."

Sybil's eyes moved up quickly as her mind began to calculate. "You and I have never talked about this before..." she observed.

"Yeah well we're talking about it now. I'm sorry, Sybil, but you don't understand. You know, you were a blessing when I first arrived here. My parents were terrified sending me off and just like you I was far more proud and stubborn than any nineteen year old should be. But we met and I was so relieved. And I was relieved for them because I thought that beyond my studies my life would be miserable. And if it was, maybe I deserved that. My father benefits from English rule. It doesn't matter that he believes himself to be Irish through and through. He's accepted his fate." She straightened her blouse out and turned back to the full-length mirror she stood in front of. "It's more complicated than you know..."

"What's wrong with asking questions? I've been here for two years and people think I'm invisible—"

"Isn't that what you wanted? To finally be invisible?"

Sybil looked down.

She said nothing.

Molly sighed and stepped back into her friend. "It doesn't change things. Questions don't change what they've done to the economy and questions won't erase the checkpoints or bring all the people who have lost jobs, or family members back…"

The girls, while familiar with spats from the years they spent as roommates, were completely taken aback by the honesty and personal nature of their current conversation. As Sybil had told Tom, no one talked of these things, and now, as Molly looked to Sybil, both girls with squared shoulders, it was clear that this was far bigger than past arguments they had had over damp towels left on the floor, or shoes kicked off and placed in front of the doorway.

"You need to be careful, Sybil. I mean, what does he want with you anyway?"

With sharp eyes, Sybil looked to her friend, resolving not to question her somewhat rude nature. "He doesn't want anything. We were just talking about books."

"Books?"

"Yes, Mol, you know, those things we're assigned readings in each day before class ends?" Molly rolled her eyes and Sybil let out a breathy laugh before continuing, hoping to break the tension. "He's in O'Connor's all the time. He's read nearly every book on those shelves. He's really very smart…"

"You don't think it odd that he only just now noticed you?"

"No," Sybil said honestly as she shook her head, motivating a voice that was still so gentle. "I've been here two years, Mol. I've worked in that shop for one. He's been going in it far longer than you or I have. I mean, isn't it about time? So what? I go, we have tea, I walk back and spend the same Friday night I always do, alone, while you're out having fun."

"Brian and I constantly invite you…" Molly gave quickly.

Sybil forced a small smile. "I know you do. But I can't spend my life tagging along on other people's adventures. I didn't come here for that. I—"

"Was supposed to go to America," Molly said, once again rolling her eyes as she too changed into more casual clothes for the upcoming evening. "So what happens then? Are you going to tell him the truth?"

Sybil narrowed her eyes at her roommate and puckered her lips in question. "The truth?"

"You know," Molly said with a nod of her head. When Sybil's face remained unchanged, Molly let out a small laugh. "Alright, I suppose he doesn't need to hear all of it. I mean, I don't even know all of it…"

"There's nothing to know."

"Sybil, we've been friends for two years now, and everyday I'm constantly learning things about you. Things you just 'forgot' to mention," she motioned, creating quotes in the air. "Like that time you met the Duke of Gloucester at your father's office in Notting Hill. Or that time you danced with a French prince and had no idea he was a French prince. These are important things!"

Effortlessly, Sybil shrugged. "They're not important to me."

"Well, they should be, because they're important to society and the world we live in. Titles matter. Where someone was born and what their parents do matters."

"Not to me."

"Sybil, you're not invincible!" Molly practically yelled. Her friend, while loving and compassionate, was sometimes hopeful to a fault, a flaw she didn't know existed, or could exist, until she met Sybil Crawley. "These boys are angry and they've got a lot of testosterone, and in my opinion, that is a very lethal combination. They don't make good boyfriends and they certainly won't make good husbands or fathers. So while you may think this is exciting, to meet someone new and get to know them, it's not. It's dangerous and you're being stupid."

"I never said anything about a boyfriend or a husband. We were just talking, alright? And I do want to get to know him and I am curious about his side of things."

"His side? As opposed to what? My side?"

"Or my side!" Sybil gave.

In a clean shirt, Molly stepped forward and pointed a finger directly toward Sybil's chest. "You don't get a side, alright? You have no say in this! If you weren't here, you'd probably have no knowledge of it. The media barely covers it, and when they do, they throw all of us under the bus. Just...no!" she yelled, as if she had reached a conclusion in her mind she had yet to share with Sybil. "No!" it came again. "That's your problem, alright? You think that you can just learn about places and people and if we all talk it out it'll be okay, but that's where you're wrong. There's no fixing this. And if anyone can fix it, I'm sorry, but it's certainly not going to be the rich girl from London…"

Sybil looked down. Biting her lip, she nodded. "Yeah...got it."

"Look," Molly sighed. "Bri and I are going out to the pub to grab a bite, then we're headed to the cinema, and we'll probably get drinks after. You should come."

"No, really…"

"Sybil, you're right. There's no sense in you spending your time here alone in this room. Enjoy yourself. Get to know the city."

"Alright."

Molly slumped as she walked to meet her friend by the door. Both girls were now fully dressed, and the plait Sybil wore in her hair earlier was undone, leaving her waved hair to fall this way and that around her face and off of her shoulders. This was a truce, this was Molly admitting that she was wrong without ever saying a word. "It's just tea, right?"

"Just tea."

"And you'll talk about books and politics and promise me not to mention anything about your father to him?"

"Yeah," Sybil managed. "Of course."

"Alright," Molly sighed. "Off you go."

"Thanks for the permission, Mol."

"No, I just…" Another sigh. "When we got here, Syb, you were so bright-eyed. You believed in things. You were hopeful and you were passionate and you worked hard in your classes and you wrote home every week and even when your family refused to write back, you continued. I'd never seen anyone as positive as you. But slowly, it's changed you. It changes all of us."

"Why do you stay then?"

"School, mostly. Now Brian. And you," she nodded again.

"Don't stay for me…"

"Well, why do you stay? If you left, I'd have Brian. You could go to school in New York or Rhode Island. I think you could do anything you wanted, Sybil. You'd honestly thrive anywhere but here..."

This was the same question Sybil had yet to hear from Tom, and now, after two years of friendship with Molly, it came in uninvited, pushing its way into the room like any other intruder, but one she'd be forced to face long after this night was over. It was not at all similar to the way Tom entered her life, but it was now the same question she'd ask him, knowing that to do so would be to backhandedly tell him to go. Not to Belfast, but to America maybe. After all, that was her original plan; if only her heart had let her travel that far.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review if you feel so inclined! I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts :]

x. Elle


	4. Lost Boys

**A/N****: **Some of you expressed confusion over not knowing some of the backstory with the troubles. I do write this with the hope that you have a basic knowledge of the conflict. If you don't, that's okay. I made a post on tumblr a short while ago, detailing some basic events and revealing the main sources of contention. If you're interested (I do suggest everyone who is reading this story read it), I'm going to put a link to it on my profile page. Also, the wikipedia page for the troubles isn't half bad either.

Some of you also seemed to be confused in general. That's intentional...just like it was intentional in BC. There are a lot of things Sybil and Tom do not know about one another, and as they get to know one another, you will be let into their worlds more and everything will start to make sense. I hope this chapter kickstarts that. From here, it really takes off...

Enjoy!

* * *

Game face, getting why so serious, child?  
You're like a boy delirious  
When you say is this town worth living in, living in  
Is this town worth living in?  
_Lost Boys_ - The 1975

* * *

"Your friends don't like me."

Sybil turned to Tom, her eyes moving in the same way her mouth did - downward and serious - both doing their best to figure him out. They had only just left her dorm, and she was happy to be done with it — the conversation with Molly and the wardrobe change, and the way she was reminded of what it felt like to be treated like a child; so small and helpless. Sybil wondered, if like the denim jeans she now wore, Tom noticed her change in attitude. She was so sure of herself before and now she felt insecure, smoothing back her hair and fixing where her starched shirt awkwardly pooled beneath her cardigan. She didn't care about these things before meeting Tom, just like he didn't seem to notice things before he met her. Now, Tom was noticing everything, each touch, scent, and glance felt so intensely - like electricity, but the kind you're warned to stay away from by parents who seem to forget it's also beneficial to explain why such power is so dangerous.

"My friends?" Sybil tried to clarify.

"Brian and Molly."

"I'm not really friends with Brian," Sybil explained. "He just—"

"Fucks Molly," Tom finished for her as he stepped into stride alongside her. "Yeah, I get it."

Again, she blinked, taking all of him in, specifically the way his hands, ones that were noticeably large, were stuffed so gently in his pockets, pushing his shoulders up toward his ears. "Why do you cuss all the time?"

"Why don't you cuss all the time?" Tom snapped back, his voice as present as his ego. "You're seriously missing out if you don't let a couple 'fucks' fall from those pretty lips."

"I…" Sybil was speechless. They were at the cafe now. Or at least Tom seemed to have happened upon a familiar spot, because he moved with purpose, opening up the wooden door to let them both inside, leaving a somewhat stunned Sybil to stare at him through the glass clouded by rainstorms and the dirty, sweaty palms of coeds just like herself.

Eventually, she followed, and as he found a booth toward the back, she was surprised to see him waiting, first for her to sit then for her to answer his question. Instead, she asked one of her own. "You think I have pretty lips?"

Tom grabbed for a menu from where several sat near the candle that flickered unobtrusively between them. She followed his lead, but was careful not to let his gaze fall. She wanted an answer; she craved it, and wished he'd hurry up so she could keep all of this going — but why, she was still unsure.

"I find it really hard to believe that a man's never told you how beautiful you are before. Don't act so surprised."

"Not men, no."

Tom sat back and dropped his menu. "Are you a feckin' lesbian? Holy shite…"

"I'm not a lesbian!" she said in loud dismissal. Tom's eyes bulged and he smirked, apparently loving how easy it was to rile her up. "Not that there's anything wrong with that…"

"No, you wouldn't think there is, I suppose," Tom quipped. Soon, his eyes were hidden behind his menu and Sybil was forced to stare at the restaurant name printed so clearly on the front: Stag's Head.

"What does that mean?"

"It means whatever you want it to mean, Sybil."

"Well, I'm not a lesbian," she gave again. She sat with excellent posture and her legs were crossed at the ankle while she held her hands nervously in her lap, her eyes darting about just hoping someone would come over and take their order. When silence threatened to ruin everything, Sybil spoke up, reminding herself that despite their newly antagonistic behavior they both were full of equal insistence on spending time with one another.

Turning back to Tom, she cleared her throat. "I wasn't saying that men haven't told me that, I was saying that those who have told me those things were boys."

"In age or maturity?"

"Some were your age. Some a bit older."

"And are you not flattered? You know, maybe you'd have a boyfriend if you were nicer to everyone. Not so cold..."

"I'm plenty nice. Besides, where's your girlfriend?" Well, Sybil thought, that was certainly more casual than she originally feared.

Tom smirked. "Out of town."

"You're a pig."

Another smile, one that caused Tom to lean forward. "I don't have a girlfriend," he gave simply. "My mam says I read too much, that girls don't care about politics or poetry…"

Sybil watched Tom. Slowly, she repositioned her hands in her lap before reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She smiled and he noticed, fighting the urge to always ask her why. Winning that battle, but losing the one in which he constantly was so curious about her, a similar word came. "What?"

"I've met your mum before. She's very nice."

"You haven't met my mam…"

"I have too."

"What are you? A fucking stalker?"

"No," Sybil said with eyes that rolled upward. "She reads too."

"My mam does not read."

"Yes, she does," Sybil gave with a scoff. "She's in the shop. Sometimes by herself, sometimes with a younger girl. I imagine she's your sister…"

"Katie Grace," Tom finished.

"Right. Katie Grace. She needed books for school once and your mum and her came in. I hadn't noticed your mum before, and Katie didn't seem interested in much other than the romance section, but they were both really lovely."

Tom chuckled. "You sound surprised."

"I don't doubt that you come from a lovely home, Tom."

"You just think somewhere along the lines my mam couldn't control me. My dad's gone and I don't have a male figure in the home and my mam just kind of gave up. You think I grew up and I rebelled because that's easier to believe than the fact that there are people in this town rooting for me. There are people in this city who thank God everyday I am who I am. But you? You think I'm just a boy with a gun."

"I wouldn't waste my time on boys with guns, so I couldn't possibly think that…"

"Well, Sybil," Tom said, his voice becoming low and hushed as he once again leaned in to her. "I'm a boy and I have a gun—"

"You're hardly a boy."

"Oh, we're back to this argument now?"

"It's not an argument. I'm calling you a man. Take it as a compliment. I thought you'd be good at this," Sybil continued. "You're so full of yourself, I thought your ego would enjoy that."

"I'm full of myself?"

"Very."

"Do you want a drink?" Tom asked casually, the question sounding as if it flowed with the rest of their conversation.

Sybil sat back, struck completely by his question. "I don't drink."

"For fuck's sake, Sybil. What are we supposed to bond over? Do you do anything? Besides read?"

"I'm studying to become a doctor. I don't have much time…"

"You should make time. Before you know it you'll be ninety-five and alone."

"First off, thank you for thinking I will live that long. In this day and age, that's very kind." Sybil said dryly causing Tom to chuckle. "And I may be alone, but at least I'll be alive."

"Yeah, my family has really shite medical history, so I think if I make it to seventy, I'll be happy,"

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Sybil stated with bite.

"I was making a joke, Sybil. Just like you did."

"Well I'm glad you think this is a joke."

"I don't think this is a joke. If by this you mean my life and the city and neighborhood I grew up in and the family and friends I have here, then no, none of it is a joke. You're absolutely right."

"But it's worth dying for?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Where'd you grow up, Sybil?"

Sybil looked away, her eyes echoing what her mind did, thinking of Molly and reminding herself it was best she reveal little about her past, even if it was true that she felt so disconnected from it. "England."

"I know. But where?"

"The country." That was not a _complete_ fabrication, Sybil thought.

"Alright. So you're not going to tell me where you're from. Then I'll guess and that'll just have to be alright because I'm allowed to assume things when people are difficult."

"Yeah, I imagine that idea's been hammered into you from a young age…"

"Wow, Sassy." Tom paused. "Okay, well, I assume you grew up very sheltered. I think your parents make a lot of money. Your dad's what? A solicitor? Something like that?"

Sybil nodded and her voice, so small suddenly, confirmed. "Something like that."

"And your mam probably doesn't work. Because her mam probably never worked. And they probably think it's weird that you want to work because most women in your family don't—"

"Is this a comment on our different backgrounds or are you just going to judge my family?"

"I'm not judging," Tom corrected. "I'm assuming. And again, I'm assuming because you're—"

"I'm not being difficult," Sybil sighed. "I just don't see why it matters. Who cares where I'm from? I'm not there anymore. I have no plans of going back."

"Well I love where I'm from. This place, where you go to school and do whatever it is you do, is my home. I love Dublin and I love living near the water and I love Ireland and the summers I've spent with family on the South coast. This place and these people mean something to me. And my faith and the way everyone in my neighborhood works so god damn hard to put food on the table and raise their children right...that means something to me. All of this matters. Maybe not to you, but to everyone here."

"Nobody is making you leave it," she said simply, and her words had no bias. Even so, just as effortlessly as they were delivered, she regretted them, knowing that Tom would not hear intention correctly. Harshly, she blinked, keeping her eyes closed as she now awaited his reaction.

"I don't have a choice. Just like the Catholics up North don't have a choice where they live."

"What I meant was—"

"I know what you meant," he spat.

"No, you don't!" Sybil returned. "And you're being a child for not letting me clarify. What I meant was that you don't have to go. It won't solve anything, Tom! This has been going on for longer than either of us can imagine! These conflicts are so much a part of who your people are that—"

"Whose side are you on?"

"I'm not on a side!" she said with clear and present conviction. "Molly says I'm not even allowed to have one…" It was this that brought her voice back down to a hush.

"You're allowed to have a side. I may not agree with it, and don't ask me if I do, because I don't know it well enough to have an opinion either way, but you're allowed to have a side. Shite opinions are still opinions, you know?"

Sybil nodded. She felt bad, and was somehow managing to feel worse the more she thought about Tom. It was odd, and she imagined that everyone else, whoever they were, would see it as such. She was English and he was incredibly Irish and the two were about to share a pint beneath an alcove booth in the back of a bar she had always been told to stay away from. She knew little of his world, but wanted to know more. Yet, she was afraid to ask why, when all of the boys like him were sent to the Catholic University on the other side of town, their families lived closer to the docks, controlling portions of bookstores and grocery centres, making it so easy for her to see how difficult it must be for people like them to live anywhere else.

"What are you going to get?"

"A pint," Tom said simply, and with a smirk, making Sybil feel as stupid as he most likely wished she would. Still, he was unassuming, and she found herself nearly brought to tears by how intense his gaze was, taking in the frizzed tendrils that framed her face at the way she nervously wiped at the bridge of her nose to avoid her own stare from taking him fully in.

"Can I ask a question?"

Sybil grinned, causing her eyes to brighten. "Sure."

"What did your supposed friend say to you? Other than you're apparently not allowed to have a side…" Tom said, shrugging off such stupidity.

"Nothing, why? And why is she a supposed friend?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is the phrase 'surrogate mother' a better fit? C'mon, I saw the way she was. What a cun—"

Sybil glared at Tom, keeping his mouth from continuing to move. He sat back in subtle surrender, but casually so, doing his best to still appear very much in control of the situation. "All I'm saying is that you're better than that. You know, to let some girl tell you how to live your life."

"Am I?"

"I think you are."

Sybil said nothing so Tom continued. "Alright then. Can I make another assumption?"

"You're going to anyway…" Sybil sing-songed. Somehow, Tom laughed and she gave him back what she could: a controlled smile. If she was offended by his earlier comment, it didn't show. In fact, she seemed to happily accept his choice to steer the conversation in a different direction, just so long as it kept going.

"She said something. And it made you think. Or you were offended by it and now you're sad, because that's the kind of person you are. You can't imagine finding fault in your friends, I mean, she's probably the only person around here who talks to you...so the blame is on you. And now you're feeling insecure. Because we're not surrounded by books anymore. You don't know this world. This world is my world and you're an outsider here. And you have no idea why you're still here with me."

This made Sybil smirk, but as she did, she hoped not to reveal an admittal of guilt or innocence. She was neutral. Perhaps she was completely without a side, and she needed Tom, more than he needed her, to create her opinions.

"So I'm going to get us some drinks. And while I'm gone, you're going to leave if you want to leave. And I'm not going to say anything about it either way."

Sybil meant what she said; she didn't, nor did she ever have any intentions of spending time with boys with guns. But Tom, she was finding, was so much more than that. He was merely a boy who happened to have a gun, and as he once jested, it was a small detail she was willing to overlook, because as he moved toward the bar to place an order for the both of them, Sybil did not stir. She was not stunned to the spot, or forgetful of his offer, but in his absence she found she could not take her eyes off of him. The arguments and conversations they had shared thus far were exacerbated by the way in which who she thought he was and her fear of who she believed he wanted to be were confronted with her own shortcomings in changing him, and being unhappy with herself. Molly's words did make her think, and she did blame herself. They weren't right or kind, but they made Sybil see that perhaps she had as much thinking to do as he did, and that if she was meant to constantly run into him like this, this was going to be a concerted effort for both of them, and not just merely her convincing him not to go.

"Well, fuck…" Sybil heard, pulling her out of her own thoughts and the way her eyes were still trained on Tom's back as he stood up at the bar in the center of the room. She thought they were hidden, tucked away, with their booth being in the wall, and with old encyclopedias collecting dust and bar grease right above their heads.

Out of habit, one Sybil had been trying to rid herself of since leaving Yorkshire, she smiled. The closer they became, the less she saw of Tom, but soon she noticed his green army jacket was replaced by theirs, all of them wearing similar hues of green and navy, black and denim. She blinked before looking up. "Can I help you?"

"Possibly," the tallest boy replied. "I'm Aidan," he said with an outstretched hand. "And you and I have never met."

Sybil looked around. The same sense of self she wore when back in the bookshop with Tom was realized once again as she nodded and rolled her lips inward out of amusement. "No, we haven't."

"What's your name?"

"I'm not entirely sure I want to give it to you…"

Aidan looked to his friends, several of them staring back at him as if to say that they were confounded by her as well. They did not laugh in the way Sybil assumed they would, and their actions actually worked to make Aidan even more flustered. He turned back to Sybil and eyed the empty seat across from her, contemplating whether or not he should sit down. "Are you here with someone?"

"Possibly," Sybil gave. "Would it matter?"

"It would, because you see, if you weren't, I'd ask if you'd let me buy you a drink and you'd say yes…"

"Oh, would I?" Sybil deadpanned.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Probably not."

This was what set the other boys off, all of them babyfaced and clean shaven and far too young to think they were so invincible. If Sybil wasn't so defensive she'd realize how sad all of it was before ultimately finding her place in all of it.

"So you are here with someone?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm here by myself and I'm annoyed that you're blocking the only sunlight coming into this place."

"Sunlight? You came into Stag's Head for sunlight?" Aidan asked with a tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. Like Tom, the movement of teeth and a stunted, sly smile, had her taking notice of the fact that despite their arrogant nature, all of them were varying degrees of fit. "What? Is Daddy in town for business then?"

"Nope," Tom said from behind them. It caused Aidan to take a step back, and for Sybil, highly amused with her hands tucked flat beneath each thigh, to stare down at the table and smirk. In his hands, Tom carried two pints, both were dark in color, but one that had much more foam on the top than the other.

"Jesus Christ…" Aidan let out as he saw his best friend put the drinks down on the table, confirming what the rest of them had only guessed. "You know her?"

"Her?" Tom asked, nodding toward Sybil. He smirked in her direction, wondering why she hadn't given them her name. "Yeah, I know _her_," Tom emphasized again, hoping Aidan and all of the rest of his friends took the hint. "What do you need?"

"Well, I was just being nice…"

"What do you need O'Keefe?" Tom repeated. His voice became serious in both tone and volume.

"A drink, for starters. But now I find you're not playing by the rules and—"

"Well if I'm not then you're not either," Tom returned flatly. His eyes also bulged in warning, turning dark and hazy as he bit the back of his lip, seeking control. "Feck off and stop concerning yourself with what I do, alright? I said I was in, and I am. I'll see you tonight at Cleary's."

"Tom…" Sybil said, standing, a feat that was made especially difficult as the table top jutted out over where the bench of the booth remained bolted to the ground. Tom looked to her, and she quickly sat down. For reasons she was unaware of, she felt bad for him, but only temporarily, all before the bitter taste she had in her mouth over Aidan and his talk of "rules" distracted her. Tom had only just told her that this, his life and this city, were not a game. He made no mention of her then, and the realization of this hurt almost as much as the carbonation of the drink she reached out for, that of which she discovered quickly was not stout, but some type of fizzy drink.

The boys left and Tom sat, finally giving Sybil enough space to counter his actions and stand. "Syb…"

"Don't call me that!" she spat as she stepped down off the booth. "Don't call me that and do not follow me out."

"Sybil, let me explain."

"I don't want you to explain. You said I should go and—"

"I said you should go and I want you to go if you want to, but not based off what those assholes say. I saw you, Sybil! You were going to stay…"

"And now I'm leaving. So thank you. Thank you for the drink and thank you for the company and here are your books…" Sybil said, as she reached down into her satchel and revealed Tom's latest book order, all of which was neatly wrapped in newspaper and tied with thin rope cord.

"Flaherty's _Insurrection_ was very good, and I'm surprised you've never read it. Or maybe, like I suspected, you have," Sybil rambled, "and you're planning on stealing it because this edition is rare. If that's the case, just please let me know, because that'd be very unfair to Mr. O'Connor after all he's done for you. Even if you are leaving now…"

"Sybil, wait," Tom tried, grabbing for her waist, or her bag, anything that would keep her in his grip for just a moment longer. As if it was planned, his hand made contact with the skin of her wrist, circling the bony limb in a tight grip, but one that brought her into him softly, the two breathing as their bodies collided, giving eyes ample time to glance from gazes to lips where words wouldn't dare fall. Together they inhaled, then exhaled, until finally Sybil tossed down his hand, dismissing him before straightening herself out so she could properly leave the pub.

Tom followed her, and outside, he tried the same thing. A year ago his mind would have been occupied by the pint he left on the table, and what others would think of him, practically running outside to chase after a girl he had only just met, and who they vowed to never give the same courtesy. He may have even thought this way yesterday, or mere minutes before Sybil Crawley walked into his life, bringing with her wit and now leaving with no apologies.

"Sybil, please!" Tom begged with a voice that was more ragged than anything. He wondered if they weren't so focused on their own talking points, if she would have called him out for smoking and suggest that he quit.

"Tom, I told you not to follow me!" Sybil barked, with arms that were raised up behind her in surrender like wings ready to take flight. .

"Then ignore me!" he gave back.

Suddenly the two were close again, and just like he'd done before, Tom wished to reach out and grab ahold of Sybil's wrist to keep her here.

"Is that why you wanted me to come out with you? Because you and your friends made a bet? What was it? Make fun of some dumb English girl?"

"I wish it was that clever," Tom quipped, hoping to earn a laugh. When none came, and Sybil moved to walk away, Tom blinked and shook his head. "No," he said simply, with a face he hoped was as honest as he was trying to be. "No," it came again and Tom found himself taking yet another step toward her. "It's stupid. And I can't explain it to you right now but I need you to trust me and I need—"

"I can't trust you, Tom. Why would I? Why should I?"

"I need you on my side."

His words were so incredibly honest, and the way in which he spoke them just pleaded that she believe him. Hearing and seeing this, Sybil stopped. She was altogether unable to speak, and the words she did have were things she wouldn't share with him, at least not until he had given her his own version of the truth.

Tom sighed. "I have read _Insurrection_. Several times. And it scares me that you know that. It scares me that you know a lot of things about me. And it scares me because I want to know things about you too and I don't know why. I like you, Sybil. And I don't know much but I know you're pretty and I know you're fit and you're feckin' smart and incredibly stubborn…"

Sybil repositioned her stance and rolled her neck, staring scrupulously at the space over Tom's shoulder. In another attempt to distract her mind, she turned her glance heavenward, until finally she couldn't stand not to look him in the eye.

"I'm not just some observant person, alright? Well, I am," she said with another upward motion of her eyes, "but with you it's different. I…" Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed, hoping a new attempt at breathing would give her a fresh opportunity to voice her thoughts. "I saw you walk into O'Connors one day and it just really threw me off. Something about you just really fascinated me. You know, I was working for money to get out of here. I was very much about keeping my head down and just getting things done. But slowly, I learned things about you, and suddenly it seemed just as much as I was hoping you would, you'd show up. And on this one Saturday you spent hours near one of the back shelves. Hours," she repeated. "I thought you'd left, but you were taking your time looking for a book. You'd read the first chapters of several, and I knew that some of those were novels you'd read already and you wanted something new, you just couldn't think of what that something new would be. So that started it for me. I wanted to know more about you, Tom. I was curious. I wanted to understand why you, this bright kid, were as obsessed with literature and poetry as you are about this conflict. I just thought if I read what you read, I'd get it. I thought I'd have this brilliant insight into who you are and why you are that way, but I didn't. Every book just made me more and more curious."

"You read my books?"

"All of them."

"You're feckin' nuts, you know that?" Tom asked with a breathy laugh.

Sybil nodded and laughed too. "I know."

"Tom?"

Both were pulled out of the moment by the voice, and with it, the girl it belonged to, stepping into them. Sybil felt just as confused as the girl looked, but was soon distracted by the golden sheen of the girl's hair and her pretty pink lips, ones that made up in softness of tone what they lacked in volume.

"Is everything alright?"

* * *

***_Insurrection_ is a book by Irish author Liam O'Flaherty, detailing a group of boys who each struggle with their own identities as young men during a violent conflict - that being the Easter Rising of 1916. The books parallels this chapter in the sense that Tom and his friends have a lot in common with the boys in that book. Their childhood has been robbed from them by the fighting and tension. Some things never change...

Thank you for reading! Thoughts? I'd love to hear them! :]

x. Elle


	5. Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You?

**A/N****:** I'm so glad that the last chapter seemed to peak everyone's interest! Enjoy as we reveal who this mystery girl is…

* * *

"I know it's me that's supposed to love you  
And when I'm home you know I got you  
Is there somebody who can watch you?"  
_Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You?_ - The 1975

* * *

Katie Grace, or at least what Sybil saw of the back of her as she followed the Branson children back to their home, was beautiful. Beautiful and unassuming and with a voice so soft, Sybil was forced to wonder if siblings were given traits in proportional quantities. This idea followed through with the girl's build; petite next to her older brother's broad frame, but Tom managed to meet Katie in the middle with everything else, and it was not lost on Sybil, or any of the other people they passed, that the Bransons were close — equal parts combative and supportive, good with humor but quick witted and devout in their Catholic faith above everything else.

In seeing Katie in full, albeit clouded, daylight, Sybil was also able to see a new side to Tom. For a moment outside of Stag's Head she thought herself special, and perhaps she was, but no more special than his sister was. He listened so intently as she talked and he slowed his stride, allowing her knobby legs to yield in stress as she strutted beside him. Sybil wondered if Katie felt safe in Tom's presence too, if beyond the gun he toted and his height, she was made to feel secure by the respect he received passing townhomes and flats where families they knew from church nodded his way and asked him about his mother.

As Tom said back in the pub, this was his world, and it was natural for Sybil to feel out of place in it. Even so, she wondered if the people noticed her at all, or if, as she hoped, the ways her eyes caught on wads of gum and splatters of paint on the tattered sidewalk had her looking as translucent as she felt. They were of a higher mind than she, because if they did notice her, they made no motion toward or mention of it. All of the attention was put on Katie Grace and Tom and Sybil was more than pleased by this, constantly accepting the role Ireland had taught her well: one of passivity and ignorance, something altogether foreign to most of the women and girls here.

At the top of the steps leading up to what Sybil could only assume was the Branson home, she realized why it was this trip was necessary: Katie forgot her key. Both girls stepped back and Tom retrieved his own, sliding the metal swiftly into the lock before pushing in. Inside, Sybil was confused to find that the Bransons did not live in all of the brownstone, and merely owned (or rented) the flat upstairs. She didn't know what to expect, but already she was doing her best to take it all in, especially with the hopeful knowledge that there were two apartments off the entrance downstairs and only one above. At the top of the steps, another door was opened, and Sybil, for the first time since arriving here, was invited into an Irish home. She knew little of what to expect, but knew better than to speak up. Instead, she slowly followed Tom and Katie Grace away from the front entrance. She did so only after shutting the door behind her — a task that seemed so absentminded and natural, as the home beckoned that all dirt and gossip be left at the doorstep with muddy rainboots and damp umbrellas, not to be mixed with the lace drapes or the small bouquet of baby's breath that stood in a mason jar on the small table near the front hall closet.

Pictures, a crucifix, and several candles lined the wall of the narrow hallway leading toward the kitchen. The color of the walls, a matte eggshell, was somewhat drab, but the way in which Mrs. Branson decorated the home in different shades of green, grey, and purple showed not only her attempt toward providing a loving home for her children, but the proper execution of such a thought, as despite the antique furniture, and slight water damage on the ceiling, the home was immaculate, and smelled faintly of rosemary and lemon.

Katie moved to the stove, setting the kettle atop a burner, causing the water in the teapot to begin moving despite the relatively low heat setting it was placed upon. Around this time, Sybil reached the end of the hallway and was now standing in the center of the home, where off the kitchen, the family's single bathroom stood, and beyond that, a small living room with an attached study. Here, there were no more pictures to examine, or even pretend to look at, and Sybil awkwardly stepped in toward Katie Grace, the two girls separated by the space of countertop where Katie was making what looked to be a sandwich. In the absence of sound, Sybil thought of her own home, and how easily it was to get lost there, for her to disappear into a room and have her parents calling several hours later when they'd finally realized she'd gone. Here, there just simply wasn't enough space. It was outside of the home that one could be found, or in Tom's case, could find themselves.

As Sybil did her best to glance out the window and keep her hands hidden in the sleeves of her cardigan, Katie took her in. "You work with Mr. O'Connor, don't you?" she asked innocently.

Sybil smiled and nodded. "I do."

"Is that how you know my brother?"

"Um, yeah," Sybil settled, nodding again, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

"I knew you were English. My mam and I go in there sometimes and I always tell her how pretty your dresses are. But my mam's not into fashion or anything, and she's definitely not one for talking about people she doesn't know."

Again, Sybil let out a small smile. "Well that's very kind. The comment on my clothing and her aversion to gossip. We could all learn something from your mum..."

Hearing Sybil speak, it was Katie's turn to smile. "Do you go to UCD?"

"Trinity, actually."

"Oh."

"And you?"

"I'm in my last year of secondary. My mam and I might move out of Dublin soon, so I'm going to take a gap year either way. It's not really the best time to go to school, though Tom manages it rather well. That and everything else…"

"And your father?"

Katie forced another smile, but said nothing. Thankfully, the kettle was going off, and she used this as an opportunity to turn around, her back facing Sybil, as she poured the steaming water into two cups. "Would you like some?"

Sybil realized the girl had returned to talking to her, and she took a step forward in acceptance. "Yes, please. Thank you. That's very kind."

Katie could only smile again. "Do you have friends here, Sybil? I mean, beside Tom?"

"A few, yes."

"And you've been here for a while, correct? You were in the shop when I bought my books last July…"

"I was," Sybil nodded.

"What are you studying?"

"Oh. Medicine."

"Ooooh!" Katie expelled zealously. "What kind?"

"Well, I want to become a pediatrician, I think."

"You like babies?"

"I like all children." Sybil leaned forward on the counter. "When I was younger, all of my doctors were old men. And then one day I was riding the train, and I saw a really pretty lady. She had taken off her jacket and underneath she had her scrubs on. I assume she was a neurosurgeon or something really important. But her hair was plaited and she looked so put together. It's crazy because I'm sure she had just gotten off a shift at the local hospital so she was probably exhausted and ready to pass out. But she was kind to me, and we talked about books and politics until it was time for her to get off. I was fifteen then but I remember thinking how nice it'd be to be like that pretty lady. Beautiful and smart and very in control of my life. If I'm tired at the end of the day, I want it to mean something."

"All of my doctors were old men too. There's a younger dentist at the practice we go to, but I haven't seen him yet and Tom says he's a real wanker." Katie giggled at her own comment and Sybil joined her, the two girls filling the kitchen with contented laughter despite the years and backgrounds that divided them.

"Tom's protective of you…"

"He's protective of a lot of people. But yes," Katie sipped at her tea, "I've heard that before."

Sybil smirked out from behind the lip of her glass mug. "Do you not like him being protective?"

"No," Katie said quickly and with force before allowing her voice to soften and dispel the word again. "No, of course not. I just think maybe he protects me from the wrong things."

"Like?"

"Well, boys. And having fun. Despite what everyone says, my brother does not know how to have fun…"

Sybil's had not heard much about Tom. She only knew what everyone said about boys like him. A few girls, most of them small minded and immature by her standards, found him to be attractive, and several Trinity girls claimed that he and all of his friends were very much worth the trouble. Still, she played along, nodding her head and carrying cheeks so bulbous and rouged, Katie had no other choice but to believe Sybil knew exactly what she was talking about.

"What lies are you telling her?" Tom asked, appearing in the kitchen. On his hip, a worn down mustard-colored laundry basket, full of freshly washed linens. As he passed Katie, she pointed to the sandwich on the counter and reminded him to eat, completely ignoring his curiosity of the conversation she was having with his new friend.

"You can do that after," Katie commented with a heavy sigh. "Mam's going to be home soon."

"Yeah, exactly," Tom sighed. "And she asked you to do this for her. And it's not done," he concluded. "So you're welcome…"

Katie let out a sigh too, one that propelled her forward, her elbows on the counter as she sipped at the last of her tea. "Sybil wants to become a doctor."

Tom looked to Sybil, first to the blank, yet watchful stare she wore, then to the way she hid behind her coffee cup the longer it continued. He smirked. "I know."

All further conversation was stilled by the front door and the sounds coming from right behind it. Unaware of what else it was she was supposed to be doing, Sybil remained at the counter by the sink, staring at the back alley of the Branson home, where beyond it, the docks sat, and the expanse of sea became faded as the sun descended in the sky. Tom remained at the table, finishing folding the rest of the laundry. It was clearly not an act, and Sybil's eyes took immediate notice of this as bed linens and towels were quickly squared into neat, crisp piles and placed back in the laundry basket in perfect time for Tom to kiss his mother's cheek before walking away.

"Oh, Katie, darling!" Mrs. Branson let out in a voice that seemed to be of high spirits, and laden in far stronger a dialect than Sybil had heard before. "I'm sorry, child, I thought I'd beat you home."

"Well I ran into Tom and Sybil…" Katie said carelessly, causing Sybil to wonder if the words were meant to be as innocent as they sounded, or, as expected, they were meant to bring attention to her.

"Just get her a key," Tom groaned. "Dad's not here so—"

"Dún do bheal," Mrs. Branson managed with gritted teeth and a pointed finger. It was meant to be a scold; Sybil could gather that much. Though neither took it seriously, and Tom was certainly not harshly reprimanded, because as he moved, Mrs. Branson gave an exasperated sigh and smacked the back of his head.

Tom merely shrugged, even going as far as to let out a small, careless laugh. "Sure, Ma," he said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Regardless of Katie's intention, Sybil did not go unnoticed. As she turned away from the window, she smiled at Mrs. Branson, and put her tea down to offer her hand. "Sybil Crawley, ma'am. You have such a lovely home," she said, suddenly hating the way her voice sounded.

"Yes, well, I'm glad you found your way in."

"Ex...excuse me? I'm sorry..."

Tom came out from what Sybil could only assume was his bedroom, and immediately sensed the tension. Sybil looked to him, but he didn't dare look back. He was proud of this world, his world, but like all cherishable things, when not taken care of properly, they have the proclivity to collect dust and tarnish.

"A bhfuil sí?" Mrs. Branson asked immediately, doing so with no hesitation, especially as she stepped into her son and threw her thumb over her shoulder to point at Sybil.

"Cara," Tom revealed simply.

"Mam, she can't understand you," Katie said, slightly exasperatedly, almost as if they'd been through this before. Her words were a clear attempt to make things less awkward, but Mrs. Branson seemed incensed by them.

"Bhí, tá a fhios agam," she said simply. Then, she turned to Tom. Her voice becoming even more hushed than before. "Tá sí go hálainn…"

"Aye," Tom agreed, with eyes that rolled upward and lips that pursed knowingly.

What happened next caught Sybil completely off guard, and though she didn't understand any of it, the language or the family dynamics, she recognized the hard slap of a disappointed mother, and the pointed finger that followed thereafter, condemning her son's actions. Tom must have been familiar with the turn of events, because he merely held his cheek and kept his mouth open as he listened to his mother scold him. "Eistigi liom…" her voice began, and for a moment, Sybil was jealous of the touch Tom's mother had just bestowed upon him. As she thought of how silly and absolutely ridiculous that thought would seem if shared aloud, she instead distracted her mind, calculating how many days it had been since she'd last seen her own parents. Almost eight-hundred, she guessed. Was it possible, that amongst the chipping paint and the greased cast iron pots that hung above the stove, there was more love here than back in Yorkshire or London, where light came in through too-tall windows and painted the home, as tea was served on fine china and conversation happened out of leisure and not necessity?

Just as quickly as the match was lit, the flame was put out. Mrs. Branson had given Tom her thoughts and deemed the conversation complete.

"Your sister and I are staying with your aunt this weekend. So kiss me and let's be done with this."

"You'll...you'll not see me off?"

"Tommy, everyday when you leave my house, I say goodbye to you. And when the door is shut and bolted, I say a prayer that if it be the last time, our farewell was proper. But," Mrs. Branson said, pointedly, "If you truly cared about what I thought, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Mam," his voice darkened out of frustration and an overall need for her to understand. How many times had they had this discussion, Sybil wondered. And were such conversations so commonplace in all of the townhomes along this street, where a civil war made usually kind, compassionate, and warm mothers cold and as limitless in their wrath as the black sea that surrounded this city. "I do care what you think. Dad would want me—"

"Tommy, I'd really like to not slap you again, but that is the second time you've brought up your father today. Go leor!" She warned casually, in the way that mothers do when they know they'll not have to repeat their words again. "I want us parting on good terms, ye hear?"

"Alright…"

She stepped into her son, gripping his cheeks and kissing them, one then the other, before enveloping him fully. He towered above her small frame, but it was her strength he borrowed, especially as his eyes began to water over with tears he'd only cry when she and his sister were both long gone.

"I love you. And I need you to be careful. And I expect you to go to mass...and you be respectful and you keep your head down. Don't let Aidan and those boys make you feel bigger than you are. I did not raise you that way. You are no better than anyone on this planet, Tommy, and they may not be kind to us, but those people have homes and families too. So!" she let out, an attempt not to cry, Sybil assumed. "Write to me if you wish. Call if you feel so inclined. But when you come back, if you come back, that'll be the end of things. Me letting you go is as much of a gift for you as it is for me. I'm done talking about war in my home."

"Slán go fóill, Ma," Tom tried, as he pulled away from the hug.

"No, Tommy." She paused, stroking her son's cheek. "Slán, my boy...Slán."

Katie was at the stove again, pouring the rest of the water into a travel canteen. Sybil was so stuck on watching the interaction play out between Tom and his mother that she didn't notice that the girl had put some of the groceries in the refrigerator, but wrapped the rest for the journey she was about to take with her mother. At her feet were also bags she had grabbed from the same laundry room Tom had come out of earlier. They were made of thick leather and carried what Sybil could only assume were more necessities for their trip; things like toiletries and changes of clothing, and personal items like Katie's favorite hairbrush and their mother's bible.

Katie Grace stepped into her brother and gave him a long hug. Unlike the words exchanged between Tom and his mother, only silence existed here, and the way in which Tom smoothed back his sister's hair and kissed the crown of her head nearly had Sybil in tears. What she had just witnessed, the magnitude and weight of which was certainly overwhelming, was so far out of her own emotional grasp and overall familiarity that she found she was stunned by it, her lips parted slightly and her hair frizzed as she ran a hand through it, all in an effort to bring herself back to the present, where her and Tom currently stood alone in his family's home, amongst the silence and words unsaid, ones Sybil heard as she imagined Tom begging his mother to convince him to stay.

"Are you...are you okay?" she asked softly, reaching out several fingers to touch at the red mark on his cheek where his mother, in an attempt to get him to open his eyes, had only reminded herself that he was not her little boy anymore.

Tom winced at the contact, and Sybil stepped back, folding her arms over her chest to accept his hesitance. "Yeah, m'fine," he mumbled. "M'sorry you had to see that."

"I'm not," Sybil said strongly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not much to talk about," Tom admitted, as he picked up another basket of laundry and walked toward his bedroom. This time, Sybil followed, standing at the door frame, using the deep wood to perch against as she watched him continue to fold the contents of the basket. The other basket, she knew now, were his mother and sister's things. This basket was his, and she took in the casual atmosphere that existed here, brought on by the pot of tea they had already shared and the way she was let into his world so easily once they both managed to shut out the chaos of the streets below.

"Your mam is lovely. I'm sorry if she was upset that I was here…"

"You don't have to say we're lovely and good just because you're the outsider here, Sybil."

"Well…"

"She wasn't upset," Tom laughed off, as he folded yet another pair of underwear and placed it in the pile with all the rest. "She called you beautiful."

"I don't know if that's…" Her words were made light and girly by the compliment, and she moved to push a few loose strands behind her ear, ones that fell as her eyes remained transfixed on the wooden floors below. They stopped as Sybil thought of Tom's earlier comment on her inability to properly take a compliment. "Does she not think the girls you usually bring home are pretty?" Sybil tried, this time with composure, but still doing her best to sound cheery and positive, despite suddenly regretting the bad news her question could conjure.

"I've never brought a girl home," Tom said seriously.

"Oh," she nodded. "Well, I'm sorry then…"

"For what?" Tom tried with another laugh as he stood and began putting the folded laundry where it belonged in his armoire. "You need to stop apologizing."

"Alright," she accepted with another curl tucked behind her ear. She did, and Sybil knew that. She had known that since she left Yorkshire two years ago, and had been working on it for just as long.

"You know," Tom began again, "My mam and you have a lot in common, Sybil."

"She seems like a strong woman. I imagine it's hard, doing this alone. Raising you and Katie Grace, and keeping the home…"

"She used to be strong. I mean, in a way, she still is. She's just tired of the fighting. She can't be here anymore. Since my dad…"

"What?" Sybil asked, stepping in eagerly. She made no qualms about hiding her clear curiosity. "Where is he? Prison?"

"No," Tom chuckled. "He's not in prison."

"Was he in prison?" Sybil swallowed. Her mind, and his, she was sure, traveled to the ten men who had only just lost their lives earlier in the year, all of them starved, and fighting for the same things Tom was working to protect in Belfast.

"Can we not talk about it, please?"

"Yeah, fine, sure," Sybil muttered as she once again took a step back toward the door. Then: "Do you want me to go? Because I can..." she pointed to the door, hoping that soon his words would cut her off and beg her to stay, keeping her from having to fulfill her offer.

"No, Sybil, I don't want you to go."

"You just seem…"

"I'm tired," he admitted readily. "I'm the kind of tired that sleep won't cure."

"Why don't you go with them then? If that's why they're leaving..."

"With my mam and Katie Grace?" Sybil nodded so Tom continued. Again, he scoffed. "Have you ever felt like your family has given up on you, Sybil?"

"No, not really, well, maybe…" Her words and the way in which she mumbled gave her time to think and she was somewhat surprised by the outcome. "Perhaps, yes..."

All of Tom's clothing was put away, and as he moved to step into her, Sybil took the opportunity to get a more full glance of his room, and how beyond the shoes he had kicked off near his closet, it was quite clean and clutterless. When she looked up, he was close, far closer than she remembered him being, and her eyes darted quickly from his lips to his brow."I kind of think they want me gone. And I want that for them. Less worry."

"Tom, your mam and your sister love you…"

With a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, Tom shook his head. "You don't know them, Sybil."

"Are you saying they don't love you? Because I won't listen to that. I can't believe that after what I just saw."

"What? My mam slapping me, or her ignoring my request that she wait until Sunday after mass to see me off?"

"She's hurt, Tom."

"Yeah, and so am I…" His voice had become loud, and demanding, and in realizing this, his cheeks darkened in shame. "Sorry…"

Slowly, Sybil looked up. Her hair, which acted as a veil for the thoughts she was having, fell back off her face and over her shoulders. "You don't have to go…" she whispered, tapping at her bottom lip with the nail of her thumb.

Tom let out another laugh, but maintained the small space in between himself and Sybil. "Do you want to know what my mam said to me, Sybil?"

Her eyes did not move from his. "Only if you want to share…"

"She told me that I'm being stupid. She told me that she's disappointed in me and she can't bare to look at me anymore because I look a lot like my father and I act nothing like him. And she apologized. And she told me to apologize to you for her. Then finally she did ask that you leave, but it's not because you're English or some Protestant girl she doesn't know. My mother doesn't trust me, Sybil. She doesn't understand the decisions I make and she doesn't, and will not, trust me. And she doesn't think you should trust me either..."

Sybil's eyelashes, which Tom couldn't stop staring at, appeared dark and heavy, always moving with the weight of an early morning. They fluttered, and she looked to him.

"I'm not Protestant, I'm Anglican."

"What?"

"I'm Anglican," she repeated. "And my father is an earl and by birth, I am a lady. And currently my father presides in the same Cabinet that helped Maggie Thatcher decide against granting Bobby Sands and all of the other paramilitaries POW status."

"Sybil…"

"Two years ago, I left home because I felt alone and I thought I could do so much better out on my own. Well out on my own sucks, Tom. I haven't talked to my parents or my sisters since I left. For awhile they thought I was dead, and then when they found out I wasn't, they wished I was. Because that is easier than admitting perhaps you have a daughter or sister that doesn't see the world the way you do. So yes, I know what it's like to look at your home as this foreign place. I know what it's like to have parents you disagree with and who in turn, do not believe in you."

With a raised eyebrow, Tom took the silence Sybil granted them and stepped into her. For a moment, he even considered touching a palm to her shoulder. "Do they know where you are? Or do they worry?"

"Like I said, I haven't spoken to my mother or father since I left. They imagine I'm in the states, I'm sure. So no, I don't think they worry."

He smirked. "I think they do…"

"I have family there. My grandmother is American. I got into Columbia's medical program before I left."

"Then why the fuck are you here?" The cocky, arrogant attitude he had just previously coated each perfectly picked word with was gone now, replaced with genuine offense at her passing up such an opportunity. He didn't know much about New York, and he knew even less about Columbia, but Tom, as Sybil noted, was well-read, and he had learned over the years that there were places far more forgiving than Dublin, Ireland.

"The same reason you are. Or will be," Sybil spat. "This is my Belfast, Tom. I knew I couldn't be in London anymore but I wasn't quite ready to leave completely. I'm a coward and—"

"You're not a coward," Tom disagreed, shaking his head. "But this is hardly a happy medium." He was playing devil's advocate, but for every step he took into Sybil, he found her frozen, and altogether unable to move. So far, every time he pushed her, she managed to push back. She was resilient, and far stronger, and less mild, than he originally guessed. It was admirable, and as his mother had said, beautiful, how someone so quiet could be made up of so many different parts.

"I'm a coward and you are too, Tom."

"You know, why do you care?" he let out, closing his eyes then opening them quickly, just as he threw his hands out to the side in obvious surrender.

"I told you why I care," Sybil gave back. "You and I have a lot in common. I just thought that—"

"What would you have done if we met in England? If someone you barely knew just walked into your life and convinced you to change your plans."

"I'm not convincing you to change your plans. If that were my goal, I'm doing a really awful job at it. I'm just trying to get you to see—"

"I don't know why you left, Sybil. I'm not going to ask because I don't think that is any of my business. But I trust that you knew it was time."

"And I trust you, Tom."

"What?"

"You say your mum doesn't trust you. Well, I do. Or I want to. But you have to let me. Because I see through all of it. I left and I believed and still believe in that decision. This may not be where I always will be but it is better than where I was. If you leave, you're going in the wrong direction! I know that and I think you know that too. You're not doing it because you believe in it. Maybe you did a long time ago, but you can't anymore. So you want me to be on your side? Fine. I'll be on your side. I am on your side. I've been on your side for a long time...but you have to learn to be on your side too."

"Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Home."

"Not as much as you'll miss Dublin. I left England because that wasn't my home. I thought I had lost something, or that there was something wrong with me, but the more I'm gone, the more I realize I don't think it ever was. Dublin is your home, Tom. But if you leave and you go up North, it won't be anymore. And as someone who feels like she doesn't have a home anymore, it's important to me that you understand what you're giving up. I am searching for something you have. And it may be worth fighting for, but not like this."

Heavily, Sybil exhaled and her shoulders dropped. Watching this,Tom's eyes became heavy, and the way in which they looked at one another became more intense, as Tom leaned in, ready to kiss her, only to find that Sybil had turned her cheek.

With eyes tightly closed in defeat, Tom stood back up, no longer using the same doorjamb Sybil rested upon to remain close to her. "I'm sorry," Sybil managed lightly. She took a step back, deciding this was a better option than averting her glance again, something that seemed to be difficult, if not impossible, with him looking at her like this.

"Don't be," Tom chuckled, laughing off the pink in his cheeks as he moved to shove his hands into his pockets. "Apparently, my ability to read signals is off…"

"It's not that…"

"We've only just met. I get it. That was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid. And yes, we have only just met, but I do want to know you. And I know you want to know me. I want you to know me..." A small smile appeared across Sybil's features, and Tom was left without control and forced to return the gesture.

"I do," he revealed. "Want to know you, that is…"

"I can help you figure all of this out…" she whispered with eyes that pleaded.

"I don't think you can," he said, shaking his head in a rather cocky manner.

"Can I try?"

The room got quiet.

Tom nodded and leaned in again. "You can certainly try."

* * *

**It is worth noting that the scene in the kitchen where Tom's mother is speaking to him in Irish was purposefully not translated. In the same breath - props if you know why Katie doesn't have a key.

Thanks for reading! Personally, if it's allowed (hell, even if it's not…), I adore this chapter. For so many reasons. Tell me what you think if you feel so inclined!

x. Elle


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